dearth, frivolity, and desire

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Such is the silent pause in the middle, An utterly incomprehensible symmetry Vaguely deprived of cephilization. Swallowed almost ruthless by what seemed… Seemed clinging tar from the internal, Insufferably rising to fill the eye sockets. Creeps up gradual with sudden recognition Of the overkill that flooded, Sunken and covered by abstraction. Warm tea, standing by windows, Breathing deep lost its touches, Pulled loose the laces on the tablecloth. Stuck in the pen, Watching the pattern ebb out like so much death Or unable to...

For all God's reasons, One fell out of his pocket somewhere And landed idle without company. Perchance, it explains the absence, Vacant air of its existence; Leaving a feeling undefined by text. What word and speech imitates, Every stroke of pen forgets. A creation without recorded evolution, Painted black upon a black background, So evident the purpose. Actions that are done in vain, Granted nothing expressly. Even now, Lost.

I would never have lived without what I did not need. For certain, no feelings must sustain me Save for material entities of feeling. How then, do I come in want of wind? Impossible to possess in a jar, Or emotions too large for a pill box. And serenity in his countenance, That the triviality of love bestowed ownership, Passed across in such an invalid thing. Dependent on the formation, On the tone and mood and imagery That is the desire to need the frivolity of it. To see his eyes through it, Not the exact color, But the depth.

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